Welcome Back To CrazyLand

I ain't got it no more. Never had it, really.

I may be a dick but not a crazy one. Some are. Lots here, it seems. I don't like this country any more.

I parked at Margaret McKinney Campground early enough to go for a hike, even with the short days we have here now, getting on toward the end of November. I parked and then went for a hike.

At the last minute I decided to grab my canister of bear spray, to have it in addition to my pocket tube of pepper spray. Almost immediately after getting onto the trail here comes a woman with a huge dog. She was different though. Her dog was on a leash. Attached to the center of her chest with some kind of harness. Odd, but I was grateful.

A couple of weeks ago I was returning from a Sunday hike on this trail when I saw a dog aim itself at me and then launch full-tilt down the trail. Happy, happy dog. Not me though.

I had time to yell "Get your dog under control!" about three times before the dog was on me. So happy, it, to put muddy paws all over me. Not so much happy, me.

The owner's comment was "Most people don't mind."

After the dog jumped all over me a second time I pointed at the owner and yelled "FUCK OFF!".

"I'm so sorry was what I heard as I walked away." What? Makes no sense.

I put on clean pants and headed for the laundry the next day. Not much harm done but discouraging.

Day before yesterday was somewhat less fun. A guy threatened to shoot me after I pepper-sprayed his three dogs.

See three dogs on the trail. See them see you, alone. See them begin barking and watch them fan out as they come at you, Jurassic Park style to surround you, all barking, as two people on horseback bring up the rear.

Back off the trail as far as you can, both to avoid the horses and to get as far back as you can from the dogs. No good. Not enough.

As a last resort, pull out the pepper spray and hit the button, fanning across all three of them to keep from being bitten. Get a dog bite and then you've got weeks of hell being vaccinated for rabies and filling out criminal reports and all the rest. Pepper spray at least keeps the teeth a few inches from your skin.

That part worked, but then the owner, the guy, looming over me on the top of his horse, told me that he was armed and if I did that again he'd pull out his gun and shoot me.

The woman of the pair kept yelling at me about how I couldn't mace her dogs.

Etc.

I managed to get past them and backed up the trail in the direction that they'd come from, then continued up to the top of the ridge where I grabbed a late shot of Mt Rainier, which wasn't worth the price.

About then I began wondering about the state of my car, the only vehicle in the vicinity besides the two pickup trucks with horse trailers, fantasizing about all the windows being broken out, or worse.

That didn't happen, but I left the campground and spent the night at an undisclosed location, in relative peace, just to be sure.

I'm not liking life in the USofA much any more.

 

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See if that helps. (The commenting system quit working for some reason.) I've found that beer still works, though. Glad for that at least.

You Can Trust The Cold

I'm not freezing any more, and I hate it.

I got back to Washington State on October 4, bought a car, and began living in it. According to plan.

According to hope, but not hopefully, I caught a spell of fair weather, which is like free bags of gold dust handed out on street corners in western Washington in November. Rare. Unheard of.

Usually the rain doesn't start until the third week of October, sometimes earlier. But November is dead set on rain. It's always there, no avoiding it.

Except for 2002, when blue skies, sun, and calm air prevailed pretty much through the whole month of November, when I made one of the greatest day hikes of my life up the west slope of Mt St Helens. And except for 2019, which is now.

First, I got back here. Then I got the car. Then the rains began and I went nuts.

The bad part of buying a car is that you have to wait for the registration and the title and the plates, which takes about six weeks. You can't avoid that.

So there I was, here I was, in the rain, and looking at another five-and-a-half-weeks-of-it, so I bugged out for eastern Washington and got away from it for four or five days. And by then?

Well, by then a high pressure zone floated in and western Washington also got clear and sunny. And cold. Very cold some nights. Hard cold. Hand-freezing cold.

I managed.

It hurt, but it was only pain. Pain isn't always bad, because this was clean weather. Dry weather. Cold weather. Almost a month of it in total, combining eastern and western Washington locations.

If you're cold, you warm up, by going inside somewhere, by putting on more insulation, or by exercising. That's it. Wet does not work that way.

Get wet, and you stay wet, sometimes for days, even indoors. It used to take two full days for my bicycling clothing to dry after I washed it in winter, in the cool air and the humid air inside my apartment.

Cold isn't like that.

If you're cold and you do something about it, you get instant results. Period.

Cold is predictable. It cooperates. Fight it and it yields, not lingering forever, not hanging around inside your shoes, making your skin feel slimy. Cold really is clean. I like it, a lot better than wet, but now things are wet again, and I've been having troubles with the dealer where I bought my car. Things are slow. Dragging on and on.

Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. I should finally have my plates, and then I can leave, can take back control of my life and tour. I want to head south to see the deserts and the desert winter sunshine. I can hardly wait.

Maybe in a day or two. Maybe I'll be free by then.

Meanwhile, I'm wet. I hate being wet. Time for sun.

 

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Ruffle my fur, see what happens. I dare you.
Comments? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
See if that helps. (The commenting system quit working for some reason.)